


Self-Restraint

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Fantasizing, M/M, Masturbation, No Plot/Plotless, Phone Calls & Telephones, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Possessive Behavior, Power Dynamics, Violent Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-29
Updated: 2015-04-29
Packaged: 2018-03-20 14:42:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3654201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Some days it’s hard for Byakuran to even wait until he’s hung up the phone call." Byakuran can only resist so much temptation, and Irie is an endless source of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Self-Restraint

Some days it’s hard for Byakuran to even wait until he’s hung up the phone call.

It’s not that he lacks self-restraint. Byakuran is very good at resisting things that are worth resisting, saves his energy for that rather than exercising self-control for unworthy results. So he keeps the taste of sugar a constant on his tongue, treats himself to the teasing that brings flushing color to stain Irie’s cheeks, and because he’s been giving in on the little things he can refrain from the bigger temptations, can keep the appearance of control and the truth of dominance in his conversations with Irie. When Irie blushes Byakuran smiles, when Irie stammers Byakuran purrs, and throughout it he can feel the heat burning under his skin like a rising tide, the ache of desire caught back in his thoughts before Irie can hear more than the leading edge of it, and even the line of his shoulders stays steady and even while Irie can see him.

That’s what’s important, after all, maintaining the appearance of superiority in front of the other. It’s crucial to keep Irie on-edge to bring out the beauty of his trembling panic, to gain the benefit of the terror behind his eyes and quivering in his voice. Irie is always beautiful, but he’s at his best like this, the fragility of his appearance running up against the rigidity of his determination, and Byakuran can play him like an instrument, can bring out his best work by the simple application of a smirk laid over with unstated knowing.

The image of the other’s face lingers in his memory even once the screen has gone flat and black, the sound of Irie’s voice dimming to join the endless recollections in the library of Byakuran’s head. With the call ended Byakuran can let himself curl over the edge of the desk, can let his breathing gasp hot in his throat, can fling his restraint aside in favor of embracing complete hedonism. He can see Irie’s face behind his closed eyes, can remember the feel of his skin and the soft of his hair from other worlds, this world, doesn’t even bother to distinguish the two in this moment; it’s all satisfaction anyway, Irie’s smile and Irie’s tears in his head, the texture of his skin and the taste of his blood, and Byakuran is groaning around his inhale as he braces himself on the edge of the desk, slides the fastenings at the front of his pants open without thinking about the movement at all. His hand is moving on autopilot, the motion unthinking in his fingers and wrist so he can drown himself under the weight of his memories, the constraints of reality dissolving around him as he pants himself into fantasy.

It’s easy to lose himself. The history, present, future, dead worlds and ones yet living, they all sweep out over him to add the weight of memory to the shape of his fantasies. Everything he can imagine he has done, in one world or another, his memories of Irie coming more easily to mind than any of the strategies or the scheming. He can remember the taste of Irie’s lips, the salty familiarity of the other’s skin at his tongue as clearly as he can remember the taste of sugar. There’s thousands of memories with the other, slow Saturday mornings in college when Byakuran distracted Irie from his endless homework or the frantic slide of Irie’s mouth over him in an empty hallway when it was only the heat of Byakuran’s cock keeping the other quiet keeping them from discovery. He can see Irie trembling under him, fear and desire and love pulled from different worlds until Irie in his head is all things at all times, the complete collection of all that he might be and could be and will be, as eternal and expansive as Byakuran’s own awareness. It’s like seeing the universe at once, the world framed around the green of someone else’s eyes, and Byakuran is started to shake, his current world trembling around him in time with the easy strokes of his hand.

He almost doesn’t notice. He’s hardly aware of the constraints of his physical body, has entirely given up on attention to his surroundings; he’s existing in a thousand places at once, licking Irie’s shoulder and spilling Irie’s blood and breathing Irie’s heat all at the same time, sensation too much for a single body curling desperate along his spine and hunching his shoulders like he’s expecting a blow. He can hear Irie’s voice, all its infinite range ringing in his ears until he doesn’t hear himself at all, can barely feel the familiar shudder of “ _Sho-chan_ ” rippling in his throat. He can’t get enough air, can feel his chest aching with need for oxygen at some great distance, but it doesn’t matter, he can see Irie’s back arching under him, can see those eyes glazing with heat and going out-of-focus like Irie is seeing something out past Byakuran’s shoulder. He’s thrusting forward, feeling Irie’s lips drag over him and Irie’s body tightening around him at once, and then Irie’s head tips back, his throat going taut on a wave of pleasure, and Byakuran shudders an exhale and collapses in over the edge of the desk, heat washing him into boneless pleasure where he sits.

Byakuran doesn’t try to hold to the memories. They flicker out like candles, slipping away to the back of his mind without any staying power. It’s better than way, easier to remember where he is and  _when_  he is without the distraction of any but this world’s Irie. But the heat still lingers in his veins, pleasure as much a comfort as it is satisfaction, sticking against the edges of his smile when he leans back and tips his head up, shutting his eyes to pull up the texture of this most recent memory for next time.

It doesn’t matter, really, which world he’s in or who he’s thinking of. In any world, in any time, Irie is  _his_ , and that is the only thing truly worth remembering.


End file.
